Karma
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: You know, that waiter at Jack Rabbit Slim's...he looked awfully familiar....almost eerily so.


Disclaimer: I don't own Reservoir Dogs. As point of fact, my copy is currently lent out to a friend of mine, so I don't even own RD in the most consumer-y sense. (And yes, the withdrawals _have_ started.)

A/N: If you've seen Reservoir Dogs, the language contained herein _shouldn't_ bother you…but for the uninitiated who might stumble into this fic just because I wrote it, be forewarned: _it is harsh._

Secondly, writing Pink always makes me nervy. I worry a lot about getting his voice right. Let me know what you think, huh?

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Fuckin' unfair, man, that's what it is.

Nah, man, sit down. I don't mind. I'd relish the opportunity to tell you my story. You hear me? Fuckin' _relish_ it. You buy me a drink and I'll be fuckin' _ecstatic_ to tell you.

Scotch, neat? You're too kind. Have a seat, we'll talk, one washed up lush to another, huh?

Yeah, I know your face. How could I not? You used to be big shit around here, didn't you? Me too. Big fish in little ponds, that was us. Damn, how'd it go so wrong?

I know _your_ story…your partner took a couple in the chest, didn't he? Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. That was fuckin' brutal. I don't blame you for gettin' out of the business after that mess. I heard they had to give him a closed casket and everything. Didn't his ma have a nervous breakdown and take a bunch of pills? I mean, shit, she lost two sons in as many years…

I worked with his brother, you know. I mean, I didn't know they were brothers at the time; I didn't even know Vic's _name_ until after the whole thing went down but…

Nah, it's cool. We can change the subject. I just gotta tell you I admire your professionalism, is all. You retired while you were on top of your game; in your fuckin' _prime_.

I was gonna retire, too, one day. Thirty five is fuckin' _old_ for a hands-on thief. Conmen can get away with that shit, they don't have to actually _run_ from the cops; hitmen can go long into their sixties. Thieves, though, we got an expiration date.

I had it all planned out, too. Aw, it was a thing of _beauty_. There was this heist from a couple years back, went real wrong, see? I don't mean like ha-ha, someone's timing is off by ten seconds wrong, I mean end of my fuckin' _career_ wrong. Damn thing was bloodier than the St. Valentine's Day massacre. I was the only one that walked away, _literally_.

And I fuckin' walked away with a shitload of ice.

I was gonna be fuckin' set for life, man. Get me? Set for _life_. I coulda had anything, man. An. Eee. Thing. I had six whole months of livin' _fat_. Shit, I can still picture some of the women I had drippin' off me in Vegas. I couldn't take a fuckin' step without a piece of ass fallin' into my lap. Dined in the best restaurants, slept in the most expensive hotels, got smashed in all the trendiest nightspots, never tipped a waitress in all that time…fucked a few, sure, never tipped 'em.

That was my thing, you know? Like, my little way of giving the finger to society. Fuck the established order of things, right? Fuck tipping. It's not a fuckin' institution, it ain't in the fuckin' bill of rights…fuck you, wait staff, more money for _me_.

Those were the best six months of my life…

Then it all went to shit. Then again, when has anything perfect _not_ gone to shit, right? Jesus Christ, you saw me limp in here, didn't you? That limp ain't the result of fuckin' recreational activities. The _mob_, man. Messed with the wrong Don's daughter. Those bitches should come with warning labels.

Good old rebar to the kneecaps; they took me for every penny I had and dumped me in the desert. I probably woulda died out there if some family in a station wagon hadn't found me. That was a fuckin' fun ride to Reno. Broken knees, crammed into somebody's backseat with a brat sittin' on my chest.

Docs patched me up well enough, I guess; took three months of sleepin' on old buddy's couches and running credit card scams before I could even think about getting' back into the work force again, you know?

You wanna freshen this drink up for me, man? Oh, sorry, _Jules_…didn't know we're on a first name basis all of a sudden. Me? Shit, you can call me Pink. Everyone does, now…

Thanks...appreciate you havin' pity on a down and out comrade in arms. I'll drink to you.

So…yeah, I went to an old broker friend of mine. Asked him to set me up with a heist that had a juicy take.

Guess what? Word of that botched job spread _fast_. Nobody, I mean fuckin' _nobody_ would touch me, like I was some kind of a leper or somethin'. Old connections stopped answerin' my calls. Friends stopped recognizin' me on the street.

I even relocated. It didn't fuckin' matter. I couldn't get a job on the circuit. Opportunities just…dried up. I was broke, I was desperate, I was in _forced retirement_.

You know what thieves do when they can't steal anymore, Jules? You know what thieves do when they can't steal and they ain't in the joint and they're bust? I got it on good authority they usually blow their fuckin' heads off.

Not me, though…too much of a coward for that. Yeah, I fuckin' said it: coward. I got nothin' and I'm too much of a chickenshit to give _that_ up.

So, here I am, alive and well, if you can call it that, in this fuckin' monkey suit, spendin' my nights servin' fuckin' hipsters in some fuckin' trendy flavor-of-the-month nightclub. I'm a fuckin' _waiter_, man. Jack Rabbit Slim's. Jack Rabbit Jack-Offs, more like…

And the fuckin' cheapskate hipster patrons, in their fuckin' trendy clothes with their fuckin' burstin' wallets? They don't tip worth _shit_.

I tell you, Jules, irony is a son of a bitch.


End file.
